Pollyanna & Pollyanna Grows Up (Musaicum Children's Classics). Eleanor H. Porter

of a ladder near her, Old Tom just getting through the window, and her aunt peering out at her from behind him.

      “Pollyanna, what does this mean?” cried Aunt Polly then.

      Pollyanna blinked sleepy eyes and sat up.

      “Why, Mr. Tom—Aunt Polly!” she stammered. “Don’t look so scared! It isn’t that I’ve got the consumption, you know, like Joel Hartley. It’s only that I was so hot—in there. But I shut the window, Aunt Polly, so the flies couldn’t carry those germ-things in.”

      Timothy disappeared suddenly down the ladder. Old Tom, with almost equal precipitation, handed his lantern to Miss Polly, and followed his son. Miss Polly bit her lip hard—until the men were gone; then she said sternly:

      “Pollyanna, hand those things to me at once and come in here. Of all the extraordinary children!” she ejaculated a little later, as, with Pollyanna by her side, and the lantern in her hand, she turned back into the attic.

      To Pollyanna the air was all the more stifling after that cool breath of the out of doors; but she did not complain. She only drew a long quivering sigh.

      At the top of the stairs Miss Polly jerked out crisply:

      “For the rest of the night, Pollyanna, you are to sleep in my bed with me. The screens will be here to-morrow, but until then I consider it my duty to keep you where I know where you are.”

      Pollyanna drew in her breath.

      “With you?—in your bed?” she cried rapturously. “Oh, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, how perfectly lovely of you! And when I’ve so wanted to sleep with some one sometime—some one that belonged to me, you know; not a Ladies’ Aider. I’ve HAD them. My! I reckon I am glad now those screens didn’t come! Wouldn’t you be?”

      There was no reply. Miss Polly was stalking on ahead. Miss Polly, to tell the truth, was feeling curiously helpless. For the third time since Pollyanna’s arrival, Miss Polly was punishing Pollyanna—and for the third time she was being confronted with the amazing fact that her punishment was being taken as a special reward of merit. No wonder Miss Polly was feeling curiously helpless.

      Chapter VIII.

       Pollyanna Pays a Visit

       Table of Contents

      It was not long before life at the Harrington homestead settled into something like order—though not exactly the order that Miss Polly had at first prescribed. Pollyanna sewed, practised, read aloud, and studied cooking in the kitchen, it is true; but she did not give to any of these things quite so much time as had first been planned. She had more time, also, to “just live,” as she expressed it, for almost all of every afternoon from two until six o’clock was hers to do with as she liked—provided she did not “like” to do certain things already prohibited by Aunt Polly.

      It is a question, perhaps, whether all this leisure time was given to the child as a relief to Pollyanna from work—or as a relief to Aunt Polly from Pollyanna. Certainly, as those first July days passed, Miss Polly found occasion many times to ejaculate “What an extraordinary child!” and certainly the reading and sewing lessons found her at their conclusion each day somewhat dazed and wholly exhausted.

      Nancy, in the kitchen, fared better. She was not dazed nor exhausted. Wednesdays and Saturdays came to be, indeed, red-letter days to her.

      There were no children in the immediate neighborhood of the Harrington homestead for Pollyanna to play with. The house itself was on the outskirts of the village, and though there were other houses not far away, they did not chance to contain any boys or girls near Pollyanna’s age. This, however, did not seem to disturb Pollyanna in the least.

      “Oh, no, I don’t mind it at all,” she explained to Nancy. “I’m happy just to walk around and see the streets and the houses and watch the people. I just love people. Don’t you, Nancy?”

      “Well, I can’t say I do—all of ‘em,” retorted Nancy, tersely.

      Almost every pleasant afternoon found Pollyanna begging for “an errand to run,” so that she might be off for a walk in one direction or another; and it was on these walks that frequently she met the Man. To herself Pollyanna always called him “the Man,” no matter if she met a dozen other men the same day.

      The Man often wore a long black coat and a high silk hat—two things that the “just men” never wore. His face was clean shaven and rather pale, and his hair, showing below his hat, was somewhat gray. He walked erect, and rather rapidly, and he was always alone, which made Pollyanna vaguely sorry for him. Perhaps it was because of this that she one day spoke to him.

      “How do you do, sir? Isn’t this a nice day?” she called cheerily, as she approached him.

      The man threw a hurried glance about him, then stopped uncertainly.

      “Did you speak—to me?” he asked in a sharp voice.

      “Yes, sir,” beamed Pollyanna. “I say, it’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

      “Eh? Oh! Humph!” he grunted; and strode on again.

      Pollyanna laughed. He was such a funny man, she thought.

      The next day she saw him again.

      “‘Tisn’t quite so nice as yesterday, but it’s pretty nice,” she called out cheerfully.

      “Eh? Oh! Humph!” grunted the man as before; and once again Pollyanna laughed happily.

      When for the third time Pollyanna accosted him in much the same manner, the man stopped abruptly.

      “See here, child, who are you, and why are you speaking to me every day?”

      “I’m Pollyanna Whittier, and I thought you looked lonesome. I’m so glad you stopped. Now we’re introduced—only I don’t know your name yet.”

      “Well, of all the—” The man did not finish his sentence, but strode on faster than ever.

      Pollyanna looked after him with a disappointed droop to her usually smiling lips.

      “Maybe he didn’t understand—but that was only half an introduction. I don’t know HIS name, yet,” she murmured, as she proceeded on her way.

      Pollyanna was carrying calf’s-foot jelly to Mrs. Snow to-day. Miss Polly Harrington always sent something to Mrs. Snow once a week. She said she thought that it was her duty, inasmuch as Mrs. Snow was poor, sick, and a member of her church—it was the duty of all the church members to look out for her, of course. Miss Polly did her duty by Mrs. Snow usually on Thursday afternoons—not personally, but through Nancy. To-day Pollyanna had begged the privilege, and Nancy had promptly given it to her in accordance with Miss Polly’s orders.

      “And it’s glad that I am ter get rid of it,” Nancy had declared in private afterwards to Pollyanna; “though it’s a shame ter be tuckin’ the job off on ter you, poor lamb, so it is, it is!”

      “But I’d love to do it, Nancy.”

      “Well, you won’t—after you’ve done it once,” predicted Nancy, sourly.

      “Why not?”

      “Because nobody does. If folks wa’n’t sorry for her there wouldn’t a soul go near her from mornin’ till night, she’s that cantankerous. All is, I pity her daughter what HAS ter take care of her.”

      “But, why, Nancy?”

      Nancy shrugged her shoulders.

      “Well, in plain words, it’s just that nothin’ what ever has happened, has happened right in Mis’ Snow’s eyes. Even the days of the week ain’t run ter her mind. If it’s Monday she’s bound ter say she wished ‘twas Sunday; and if you take her jelly you’re pretty sure ter hear she wanted chicken—but if you DID bring her